


Beautiful Wreck

by isabelontherun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:03:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabelontherun/pseuds/isabelontherun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the same almost every night now. Dean gets drunk and Castiel makes sure he doesn't get hurt. And every once in a while, Dean asks him to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song of the same title by Shawn Mullins
> 
> Sorry for bad summary
> 
> I apologize in advance.

Blinking neon lights. Loud, then quiet. The sticky stench of alcohol that burns his nose. The faceless tavern, where last names don’t matter and the tabs stack higher than the ceiling. The usual characters shuffle in and out: the middle-aged divorcee going home with a new girl every night, the bartender with a plastic smile and whistle on her keychain, the veteran who falls off his stool onto a bed of peanut shells and Bud Light. The veteran always leaves his coat on the coat rack and comes to get it the next day, only to forget it again.

 

The open sign flashes like a fire alarm until early in the morning. Every once and awhile it burns out, but the regulars have the hours memorised. And so, night or day, a line of the sick and sad file in to lose themselves in a bottle, mug or glass. And lose themselves they do.

 

The repetitiveness is constant. Even the soundtrack never wavers night to night, but the customers barely notice. They grasp eachothers shoulder and sway when Piano Man begins to play at 12:03 am and fail to see the irony in it all. They know all the lyrics, hum it to themselves on the train, but have never stopped to see themselves within it.

 

“...Bill, I believe this is killing me…” A man sings lightly to himself. Thirty something, leather jacket, and perfect pink lips. Castiel watches his neck as he swallows. The man forever has a drink in hand, and yet is always parched.

 

“Cas.”

 

“Dean.”

 

Dean runs his fingers roughly through his hair and leaves it sticking up at the oddest angles. He squeezes his eyes shut tight for a few seconds, and Castiel sees the purple smudges underneath disappear into a crinkle of tender skin. He opens his eyes and lightning flashes around him. “I’m still here.”

 

He barely makes sense anymore, but Castiel is always able to find some truth in his slurred and jumbled words. “Yes, Dean, you are.”

 

Blink. Scrutinize. Blink. Suspicious. Blink. Wonder. Blink. “I don’t want to be here.”

 

“Then lets go to your house.” Castiel winces slightly, as he can find no way to phrase that without it sounding suggestive. “I can drive-”

 

“But I don’t want to go home!” He looks around the hazy bar and at each person within it, and no one catches his eye. “I don’t want…”

 

“Then we stay.” Castiel touches the cold exterior of a glass bottle and looks at the other three, light dancing off the caramel scopes.

 

“You can go home any time, Cas, I’m so fine by myself.”

 

Every night. Every night a new version of this, which is so wrong. So wrong for so many reasons. Dean is not fine. He never has been, and it makes Castiel crackle with anger that Dean would let him leave. Dean would let him drive away without a second addled thought. And oh, how Castiel would miss him and need him and want him til it burned. He clenches his hand. And oh, how Dean would forget.

 

“I’ll stay.” Castiel said, like it was something he could control. “I don’t mind.” Like it was something he could muzzle into submission. “It’s not…” Like Dean was not in the back of his head every hour of every day. “I’ll stay.”

 

Dean lets out a breath and grabs his forearm. “Okay good, I thought you were going to leave.” Stupid. Castiel couldn’t leave if he tried. He could be so stupid sometimes. And Dean asked him to. Stupid.

 

"Beverly." A name tag wearing a waitress. Ponytail, large bust, black t-shirt, laughs. She says no, and her giggle never touches her eyes. Dean shrugs and laughs as well. All pretend, all more fake than Beverly's eyelashes. Beverly is new, so she doesn't know. She turns away, almost smacking a college dropout with a greasy tray in her manicured hands. He's a slippery boy with back scratcher hands and Beverly calls him sweetie like sugar and shoves him away. Think twice. Double take. 

 

She turns with splay of feathery cinnamon hair. Drunk like a king, swimming in a beer oasis, drowning in a L-shaped sea of scratched wood. But in spite of this, Dean still laughed. He had steady hands and a lopsided smile. He was strong, he was charming and, to hell with it, he was hotter than a week of blazing August. And she wanted him. Castiel's breath prickled. Badly, now. His spine split. Her shift was over in fifteen minutes. He moved unknowingly. She took three steps.

 

A soft growl. That's all. Beverly stared at Castiel and he barred his teeth slightly without even sparing her a glance. She looked at his hands, and backed away, muttering some sort of apology that couldn't reach Dean. Into the bathroom she ran. The bartender caught the slimy boy before he could follow.

 

Castiel hands. One wrapped an empty bottle in light embrace. The other had found it's way to Dean's thigh, somewhere between his knee and his hip. Somewhere between passive and possessive. Castiel's hands were never where they should be, and Dean hardly seemed to notice. He instead stares at the calendar tacked behind the bar, wondering how November came so soon after October, and the spring and summer, and the October before that. "I'm getting old." Castiel removes his hand.

 

"No, you're not."

 

"Yeah. Come on. You know it."

 

"You're really not."

 

"Cas, if I couldn't get little Bev, I can't get anyone." Castiel's cheeks sting a little and he looks at the swinging kitchen door and an embroidered apron on a hook.

 

"You can 'get' anyone you want, Dean." His fingers tap to the song of the register. Click click swipe, click click ding. Over and over.

 

"You sure think so?" Dean looked at him for the first time in a hour and the simple dilation of pupils felt like a blow to the stomach.

 

Dean was... His mouth went dry as Dean's shotgun eyes gleamed with a strange innocence. His mind whirred, trying to find words but came up blank.

 

Under the dim lights, the blues and the reds, Castiel could see every single freckle. Castiel could see the pink rims of Dean's eyelids swallowing his clouded irises. The pinched violet bags had returned to sit in the shade of his eyelashes. Dean's shirt was plaid, worn and wrinkled, and his jeans stained on the knees. His boot sat dully on his feet, inscribed with love notes from gore and dirt. He could use a shower. He could use a shave. He could use someone to make him do it, too. I'll be fine by myself, he said. Stupid.

 

There was a faint stain of beer on his chapped bitten lips. Castiel put his hand on Dean's cheek and licked it off, licked between his teeth. No. No he didn't. Castiel sat on his stool.

 

He sat on his stool, surveying the mess that was Dean Winchester. What a mess, what a fool. He was beyond repair, past his expiration date, a little boy in a tragic wreck. Yes, a wreck. A goddamn wreck. 

 

A goddamn beautiful wreck.

 

Castiel still hadn't answered, as any words he could think to say stuck like pins in the roof of his mouth. Dean sighed, like he'd expected nothing less. He turned his electric eyes on the bartender. "Linda." Like fresh air. Castiel always let Dean's name soak in his mouth, while Dean spit Castiel's single syllable like a punched out tooth. "Linda, could I..." His eyes begged. Fool.

 

"I have to cut you off, Dean, you know I do." A library of liquor stood locked behind her. There was nothing left for Dean. Why does he stay? "You have to drive home tonight." Her eyes flick to Cas, and he nodded. She scrubbed out glasses that would never be clean. Shiny on the out, empty on the in. Castiel couldn't understand her. Linda cares, wants Dean home safe, but also couldn't give a rat's ass if he never came back.

 

Dean whined and tugged on Castiel's wrist. "Please." Castiel shook his head. He circled the pad of his thumb on Castiel's quickening pulse, and he lost feeling in his toes.

 

If Dean knew what he was doing, he was a bastard. If he didn't, he was worse.

 

Castiel pulls away, still shaking. Dean's touch makes him hot and leaves him cold. Better to be touched not at all.

 

"Then take me home." The flick of Linda's eyes. The tick of the clock. The veteran sitting behind them gets a phone call and let's it ring.

 

Dean is driving. Of course Dean is driving, Castiel has never even touched the wheel, Dean has said proudly. 

 

Sometimes Dean blacks out and Castiel keeps it under 30 the whole way.

 

So "take me home" had other implications. Of course it did. Dean hums to himself "let me take you home tonight, I'll show you sweet delight..." Castiel curses the way he blushed. Linda watchs. He turns away.

 

"Come on." Castiel had his elbows under his arms in a practiced second, and Dean let his head lull onto his shoulder. "Dean..." He warns weakly. They somehow make it to the door. Everyone is watching and begin shouting at Castiel, calling him an idiot. Calling him cheap. Calling him pathetic. Spitting on him. No, they didn't. It was quiet and no one cared.

 

Dean pushes Castiel away as soon as their toes dug into the icy gravel. "M'okay." He slumps against the Impala door, hands trying every pocket he has. "Cas, did you take my...?" Castiel holds it in his palm and Dean snatches it away, clumsily sticking it into the door instead of the key hole. He mutters to himself. "Dean... Don't scratch the paint, Dean, I wouldn't have given you the damn thing if I thought you were gonna ruin it." Finally, finally he gets it right. Castiel rounds to the passenger side. He doesn't like watching confused Dean trying to fit himself into the car.

 

When he sits down, the key is where it should be, and Dean's hands are resting limply on the wheel. Any morning, Dean would be moving into overdrive. Key to ignition, pedal to floor, track to track of blaring rock music. Tonight, or rather this morning, Dean stares out the frosted window blankly. He could be dead, right now, and Castiel would have no idea. Castiel would be sitting a foot away from this fantastic mistake while the life drained out of him, dripping off the dashboard like oil.

 

And that scares him to tears. He shakes Dean's shoulder and Dean jerks up, one hand slamming the horn by accident. Castiel grabs his hand and kisses his palm. No, he doesn't. He places it firmly on the wheel. "Drive, idiot."

 

Dean says nothing, just gives him an almost wicked grin. It lacks strength at its corners. The Impala shakes with anticipation and roars into gear. Strange how nothing gets Dean going more than an insult.

 

Castiel alternates between keeping his eyes blinding wide or slamming them shut. Dean whips around corners, almost in a tail spin that could kill them both. Dean sings in a chorus of whoops and yells and screeching of tires. Castiel couldn't hear himself talk. Or so he assumes. He doesn't say anything.

 

It shocks Castiel to his core when they actually make it into Dean's driveway. Obviously, they do every night. Otherwise they be lost, possibly drowning in an irrigation ditch with rocks for eyes, or tumbling down a hillside with sticks in either lung, the beloved Impala picking up speed behind them. But no, they were on the doorsteps to Dean's home. An automatic light and two fumbles with the key was enough for him to trip inside and switch on a lamp. "Ow." Deans eyes are more red then white in the new brightness, yet still when they turned on Castiel, he couldn't deny them. He steps inside.

 

"Fancy a drink?"

 

"Dean, don't." 

 

Castiel took two quick paces to shut the cabinet. Bottles clunk and slosh against the wooden door. He lays his forehead against it, affording a deep breath. Too many nights over the past five years has he driven Dean to the hospital with a blood alcohol content that made him dizzy with fear. The first time was an ambulance, the last two was Dean lying in the back of the Impala as Castiel spoke quickly and said nothing at all. Dean was not going to touch this cabinet with Castiel still standing.

 

He turned around to breath in Dean. He was much, much closer to Castiel than he was before. Dean was crowding him against the counter and their breath mingled in the stale air. One of his hands came to rest against the cabinet, and he swayed into Castiel.

 

Castiel slowly moved to sit on the counter and spreads his legs, letting Dean grabs his hips and slip between them. No, he doesn't. The people at the tavern are surely laughing now. Linda, and Beverly and the veteran. All spitting. Idiot. Castiel stands perfectly in his place. Cheap.

 

Dean leans in and kisses his temple. Yes. Yes, he does. He really, really does and the bar patrons have fallen silent. He hums as he licks under his law line.

 

"You're drunk." It pains Castiel, but he chokes it out.

 

"Mmm." Dean works his way down to Castiel's neck and sucks a pretty red mark that makes him gasp. A swirl of his tongue and a whisper. "I know."

 

Castiel attempts to push Dean away but fails ultimately, his fingers fluttering to his sides like strips of shredded paper. Dean only draws closer and his hand is warm on the back of Castiel's neck. He smells like a liquor store on fire. "You're a mess."

 

A light laugh. Closer still. "If I'm a mess, I'm a hot mess." His teeth tug on the collar of Castiel's shirt and his hands travel down his thighs. "And that's what you like." Dean brushes his cheek against Castiel's hip like a lonely cat.  He purrs. "You _love_ it."

 

Castiel takes this moment to awkwardly remove himself, pulling his legs up onto the counter with him. He huddles in Dean's wake. He smiles at Castiel, but when Dean got this certain look in his eyes, Castiel leaps off his perch. He holds onto Dean fiercely as his knees give way, and suddenly Castiel is bearing Dean's full weight. He huffs with the effort but stands strong. "M'okay." Castiel grits his teeth.

 

"Fuck you, Dean. No you're not."

 

"Language, Cas." His teeth crack with the effort not to scream. Dean makes a noise of discomfort as his heels drag against thread-bare rug, but makes no move to stand, so Castiel ignores it.

 

Castiel dumps him through the doorway to his room and Dean growls. There is an end to Castiel's sympathy, and as Dean squints up at his blurred silhouette against a rusty set, all Castiel wants to do was hurt him. Break him. Break his jaw so he could never swear or drink again. Break his legs so he would stop running away. Ironic. Dean's saving grace is his greatest threat.

 

But right when Castiel's knuckles have turned sharp and his fingernails sunk deep into his palm, Dean gets up. He pulls off his shoes and his jeans. He slides under the covers and looks at Castiel with wide eyes. Castiel depresses. Why can't he stay angry? Why can't he go?

 

"Well." He breaks the silence. The word stands in the middle of the room. "Well. I'm going to go home." Dean electrocutes Castiel to ashes. Castiel stares wearily back. "So... Goodbye, then." Still, he waits. A shutter slams against a window and a motorcycle roars past. Castiel sighs like tectonic plates move. He flips the light off. His fingers barely touch the doorknob when Dean speaks. His feet fuse to the floor.

 

"Aren't you going to stay?"

 

Night 54. Same meaning, new words. _Aren't you going to stay? Where are you going? Cas..._ No matter. It was night 54.

 

54 times in the past months has Dean asked him. 47 times Castiel stayed. 42 times Dean kissed him. 38 times he kissed Dean. 35 times Dean pulled him under the covers. 28 times he stayed longer than 30 minutes. 23 times he stayed for hours.

 

54 times Dean didn't remember in the morning.

 

Castiel stood in the doorway. It was a black empty space but Dean's eyes were thin moons and his freckles dying stars. Castiel stood in the doorway. Some nights he likes to pretend that he has a choice, like his mind wasn't made the second he saw Dean. He had been striped of both his heart and dignity, and maybe part of him thinks that if he kisses Dean deep enough maybe he can get them back.

 

Night 1: Dean asked him and Castiel slamed the door behind him, only to sit in his cold room at home, head in his hands and stomach in his throat.

 

"Cas..." Dean's voice wavers uncertainly. Cas unties his shoes.

 

Night 7: Cas sat beside his bed, speaking softly until Dean fell asleep, and then picked his boots off the floor and puts them away. Night 6 Dean had remained in his stupor until morning and tripped, effectively breaking his nose. Stupid.

 

Castiel walks cautiously, as slow as he can, but by the way Dean smiles, he knows he must look desperate. Pathetic. He stands over Dean and bites his lip.

 

Night 12: The way Dean kissed him was the opposite of what Castiel expected. It was soft, controlled, like Dean knew exactly what he was doing. His tongue was sickly sweet and when he pulled away, Castiel knew why Dean kept coming back for the bottle.

 

Dean extends his arm and Castiel kneels, letting him rest his hand his neck and pull him in. Castiel can't help himself. He moans into Dean and it echoes through the room harshly.

 

Night 16: The morning after Castiel came to check on Dean like he always does. He found Dean in the bathroom, touching dark pink marks on his collarbone and scrunching his eyebrows. Castiel makes coffee.

 

Dean runs his fingers through Castiel's hair and murmurs his name. It makes him deeply sad to know that somewhere, lost in his subconscious, Dean knows he likes that.

 

Night 19: Castiel didn't mean for it to happen. He always thought he'd give himself to someone sober, but as soon as Dean found himself on top of Castiel, he couldn't think of another place he'd meant to be.

 

The bed is ice but Dean is warm, enveloping him. "Cas..." 

"I know." Castiel straddles him and puts his forehead against Dean's, wondering how he could hold Dean for hours and never feel like he'd gotten close at all.

 

Night 26: "I can't take advantage of you like this."

"What if I want you to?"

 

Castiel kisses Dean like The Lord could strike them dead any moment. He kisses to hurt, make Dean feel it, to silence whatever it is that makes them so sick. Even just for one night.

 

Night 31: The morning after, Castiel came to check on Dean like he always does. His heart stops when Dean finds his tie before he does, knotted around a bedpost where they left it. Dean shakes it off his shoulders with a joke and Castiel is careful to hide the rough burns encircling his wrists and the shame he didn't think possible.

 

Truthfully, Castiel doesn't understand. Flowers, romantic comedies, chocolate, kissing in the rain, being hopelessly in love. Valentine's only makes him bitter.

 

Dean falls silent and Castiel moves to lay beside him. Sometimes Dean wants everything from Castiel, wants to make him come and gasp for air. Sometimes he wants Castiel to hold onto to prove the world isn't being ripped apart. Sometimes he says things he shouldn't or nothing at all. And sometimes he just sleeps.

 

Love isn't what people like to pretend it is. Love isn't easy.

 

Love is knowing where he hides his liquor. Love is watching TV while he tries to remember how to walk. Love is screaming in a hospital, begging to know _why he couldn't keep his eyes on the fucking road._ Love is falling asleep at work because he couldn't be left alone lest he swallow his own tongue. Love is losing count of the times you've given up on him.

 

Dean's so tired his eyes close and he speaks so softly it's barely audible. "I love you." Castiel shakes his head. "No, I mean it, Cas. I love you."

 

"You don't."

 

"Don't tell me what I am, I love you."

 

"You really, really don't."

 

"Shut up, Castiel, Jesus Christ." Dean looks at him with a tenderness that doesn't match his words. His hands are surely heavy but he raises them anyway. "I love you." He brushes Castiel's hair back. "Don't tell me I don't."

 

Castiel is shot, so he only nods. Dean seems satisfied and he floats away, leaving Castiel alone in the darkness.

 

This, of course, is nothing new. Castiel closes the curtains, picks up his clothes, throws out the alcohol and sets Dean's alarm so he doesn't spend his entire life anywhere but here.

 

Castiel leans down slowly like the air has thickened to water. He stops when Dean's breath brushes his lips and thinks better.

 

He locks the door behind him with a final click and the fog stings his eyes. He walks to his car, always parked next to the Impala. He punches out a window and drags the shards across his face. No, he doesn't. Maybe he should.

 

He spares one last look at the house. It's new but broken, like the man inside. It captivates him, begs him to stay. The radio turns on when his key goes in, but Castiel finds only static. He eases out of the driveway.

 

Castiel drives home dark, wondering when Dean will remember.

 

Dean lies wide awake in his bed, wondering when Cas will stay.


End file.
